It Wasn't You
by mimithereader
Summary: "It was my fault. God, Lydia, she's dead" – and Lydia so did not need that reminder – "and I killed her. Oh my god. I killed her." She doesn't even think twice before pulling over to the side of the road, breaking a bit too hard. (Prompt: could you write a fic about Stiles blaming himself for Allison's death and Lydia comforting him?)


There's silence in the jeep. The only noise comes from the vents since Lydia has cranked the heat all the way up for Stiles. He's slumped against the window in the passenger seat and she can't help the concerned glances she keeps sending his direction. It's hard to focus on the road ahead of her when she can see Stiles shivering in her peripheral vision.

She thinks about turning the radio on just to drown at the god awful silence because she knows Stiles is not going to be able to hold a conversation right now. Not with his teeth chattering like that, anyway. It's not just him, though; Lydia is well aware that she has a golf ball sized lump of emotion lodged in her throat. She can't hope to talk right now either, not after Allison.

Allison.

Oh _god_.

Seventeen.

That's not old enough, is it?

That's not old enough to die.

It's not enough time, not even _close_ too enough –

She needs to calm down. She needs to breathe, ease up on the gas pedal, and _breathe_. It wouldn't help to get emotional right now. It wouldn't help her and it certainly wouldn't help Stiles. She needs to just focus on the road ahead of her, watch her speed, loosen her too-tight grip on the steering wheel. She needs to do this, needs to –

She needs to know what Stiles just said.

She glances over at him, realizing that he's mumbling under his breath to himself.

"Stiles?"

He doesn't acknowledge her, just continues his muttering, his words coming faster and faster. Louder and louder, until she can just manage to make out pieces of what he is saying. She catches a "no" and a "please" and has to ask him to speak up, to _talk_ to her.

"It was my fault. God, Lydia, she's _dead" – _and Lydia _so_ did not need that reminder – "and I killed her. Oh my god. I _killed_ her."

Shedoesn't even think twice before pulling over to the side of the road, breaking a bit too hard. She throws the jeep in park and doesn't hesitate to fling open the driver's side door. She hops out and rushes to open the passenger's side door. Lydia grabs Stiles's hands, squeezing tightly, urging him to turn in his seat and look at her.

"It wasn't you, Stiles."

"How can you say that? She's _dead_. How can you say _that_?" he asked brokenly, searching her face for an answer, _any_ answer.

"No one thinks that was you, Stiles. You're not that – that _thing_. Okay?"

She pulled him into a tight hug as tears began making their way down his face. He buries his face into the crook of her neck and she can't help flinching slightly as she remembers him – _no, the nogitsune_ – pressing his face against her. When he doesn't pull back, she silently thanks whatever deity that he didn't notice. Stiles doesn't need rejection right now, even if it's involuntarily. And she _knows_ that wasn't him.

She rubs a hand up and down his spine, both in an attempt to offer comfort as well as a pathetic attempt at getting him warm because _god he is freezing_. She lets him sob on her, tears leaking into the collar of her jacket.

She refuses to cry herself, even with flashes of Allison going through her mind. She pictures her at the bowling alley when they went on a double date with Scott and Jackson. She pictures her helping Lydia pick out an outfit for her birthday party. She pictures her laying on Lydia's bed as they pretend to be normal teenagers and gossip about boys.

Stiles sniffles and she is becoming conscious of just how much of his weight she is holding as he leans out of the car and into her embrace. She won't let go, though. She will carry this weight, will carry the burden of emotions of her best friend's death and she won't stumble. Not when everyone else's knees are surely buckling under the pressure already. She could handle this. She _would_.

So she pushes back her own tears, swallows that lump in her throat, and allows Stiles to break.

It takes a while, her legs are starting to tingle under his weight, but he manages to choke back his sobs and pull away. She wipes the tears from his face and offers him a small smile that he can't yet return. He rights himself in the seat, slowly and with apparent difficulty, and she takes pity on his shaking hands so she reaches across him to fasten his seatbelt for him.

She climbs back into the driver's seat and spares Stiles one more look to check that he was okay. He ducked her gaze, embarrassment catching up to him. She put the jeep back in drive and pulled back onto the road. The trip to his house is silent once more, but this time she doesn't feel the same need to turn the radio on.

When they pull up to his house he fumbles with the seatbelt, murmuring a quick "thank you" to her while still avoiding looking at her. She stills his scrabbling hands with one of her own. He freezes, eyes staring fixedly at her hand.

"She wouldn't blame you, Stiles."

He looks up to her with shining eyes. She leans closer to him, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek before undoing the seatbelt for him.

"I'll return your jeep tomorrow."

He nods quickly, eager to exit the vehicle. He pauses before slamming his door shut.

"Thank you," he repeats, earnestness apparent in his voice.

She watches him walk up to the door, sees the sheriff open the front door before Stiles can do it himself. She watches as the sheriff instantly wraps his arms tightly around Stiles in the doorway, too eager to hold his son that he can't wait to shut the door. A single tear rolls down her cheek, but she won't do this now. Not when Stiles still needs her to be strong.


End file.
